


Reverberate

by SaraJaye



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Bandits & Outlaws, Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, Crying, F/M, Hugs, Pre-Relationship, Robbery, Self-Denial, Self-Harm, Self-victim-blaming, Shame, sylvain is a mess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-27
Updated: 2020-07-27
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:47:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25542322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaraJaye/pseuds/SaraJaye
Summary: Miklan is dead, and Sylvain thought his gang was. But one survived, rising from the ashes to seek revenge.A rescue attempt goes horribly wrong, and Byleth arrives just in time. But Sylvain won't let himself deal with the fallout.
Relationships: Sylvain Jose Gautier/My Unit | Byleth
Comments: 2
Kudos: 55
Collections: Hurt/Comfort Bingo - Round 11





	Reverberate

In hindsight, he should have expected this. In hindsight, he should have taken extra precautions to see that Miklan's gang was _really_ put down, or he might have considered that one _may_ have been simply lying in wait, letting the leader's kid brother think she was dead until the time was right.

Maybe deep down he _did_ anticipate this. Whether it's a coincidence or not that he's riding past this particular village today doesn't matter, though, the sounds of screaming children as their parents beg for mercy draws him over, and he's sure his old steel weapons will be enough.

"Let them go!" he shouts, but they don't notice he's there until his horse comes charging through the open gate. The leader quirks a brow, followed by a cruel grin.

"Well, well. The little brat still breathes," she mutters. "I suggest you leave and let us carry on with our new friends if you wanna live, boy." Sylvain draws his lance, pointing it towards her chest, and she barely flinches. "Cute, real cute."

"Stupid, though," says a man, lowering the axe he'd had pointed at an elderly man's neck. "You realize you're outnumbered, right? Unless you think your peecious _Crest_ can protect you." Actually, he doesn't have the Lance of Ruin, because even now holding it still feels strange and unsettling. But he shouldn't need it against a pack of second-rate jerks like these.

"Let these people go, give back whatever you took from them, and leave," he says as calmly as he can. "If you're lucky, the Knights of Seiros-"

His weapon's knocked from his hand, and Sylvain from his horse before he can finish. The villagers are forgotten, and Sylvain yells for them to run and hide in their houses. He'll take care of this, he thinks as he struggles back to his feet. He reaches for his axe only to be knocked to the ground again, the leader sitting on his chest and grabbing him under the chin.

"You're not gonna call for any backup, brat," she growls, her breath stinking of cheap booze and tobacco. "You just cost us a big job, so you've gotta die."

"Aw, boss, do we gotta? He's awful cute, maybe we could get some use outta him," says a man. "I mean, he _is_ a Gautier, and most of us here swing both ways..." _Oh Gods, no, no, no..._ Nausea bubbles in the pit of his stomach as Sylvain struggles under the woman's weight.

Should he have brought the Lance of Ruin after all? Would it even make any difference?

"True, he's the old boss's little brother and all," she says, sliding down his body and straddling his waist. "And _he_ was plenty good. I hear this little one gets around, so he's gotta know something about pleasin' ladies..." Her knee presses further into him, halting his struggle, and Sylvain closes his eyes. _Play dead. Play dead._ But the stench of her breath comes closer, one hand fiddles with the closure of his tunic, another grabbing his thigh. _This isn't happening, this isn't happening,_ but her touch comes closer, closer to-

" _-off!_ " The slice of metal rings in the air, someone screams, and when Sylvain opens his eyes the woman on his chest slumps to the side, blood pouring from a clean slash across her back. His rescuer moves like a flash, knocking the rest out before he can even blink, and only when the dust settles does he realize who it is.

"P...Professor?"

"Felix told me to follow you," she says, carefully helping him up. "Word was spreading about those bandits, and I knew you were headed into town. I had a feeling something like this might happen." Her normally tepid voice is thick with emotion. "How badly are you hurt? Nothing's broken, right?"

Her touch isn't the same as the ones from before, but he still flinches, pulling away from her. His chest hurts from the press of the leader's knees, his back from the hard ground, but they're mere discomfort compared to the lingering grime of her touch.

"I'll be fine." She frowns.

"We should get you to Manuela, just in case." She mounts his horse and helps him get on behind her, Sylvain reminding himself over and over that this is someone he knows and trusts. _She came to save you, she won't hurt you, and neither will Professor Manuela._

He's still relieved when Manuela is able to check him over without touching him, and allows him to apply the salve to his bruises himself. He asks for privacy while he does it, letting the cool sting seep into his skin. Even for a few seconds, he's glad to feel something other than filth and grime.

Sylvain spends the rest of the afternoon throwing himself into his studies. The library is big enough for him to hole up in a corner and ignore everyone else, and no one comes here to socialize anyway. He works so long he almost misses dinner, which he only eats so he doesn't faint from starvation. It's one of his favorites, but he can barely taste anything right now.

His friends are worried. Ingrid keeps asking why he's eating so slowly, Dimitri asks if he's feeling ill, even Felix asks what's wrong without his usual sarcastic _not that I care_ excuses. He pretends he's fine, tells them not to worry, and leaves once he's eaten enough to satisfy Ingrid.

It's not that he doesn't trust his friends enough to tell them what happened, he knows they'd never mock him for being overpowered by a gang of second-rate bandits. They'd understand why he rushed into danger to save innocent people.

But the sick feeling of the leader's touch still lingers. The scent of her breath, the mix of hate and lust in her eyes he'd never forget.

He goes to the men's baths once they're empty, unable to look at himself as he strips down. He hates the heat, but this time he makes sure the water is near-scalding. He submerges himself, grabs a washcloth and scrubs madly at every place that woman touched.

It burns, but maybe if it burns enough he'll stop feeling her.

His skin is bright red when he's done. Tomorrow, he'll need to wear his uniform with the sleeves pulled down.

The knock comes at his door as soon as he's changed into his pajamas. He throws his robe on and makes sure it's tied tight, the sleeves covering every inch of him before he answers.

"Sylvain?"

"Ah, Professor. What brings you here at this hour?" She's still in her Garreg Mach uniform annd cloak, concern etched on her face.

"I wanted to see how you were doing...mentally, that is." He forces a smile.

"Couldn't be better! A little study, a good meal, and a nice bath helped me forget all about it." _Liar,_ the burns on his hips and legs and chest taunt him. "In fact, I think I'll study a little more before I get some sleep." She shakes her head.

"I saw what that woman almost did to you, Sylvain. And I know you like to hide your true feelings." She takes a step closer; while he knows very well she's not that woman and she'd never do something like that to him the fact is that she still _saw_ him weak and pathetic and overpowered. Sylvain Gautier, almost used like a _whore_ by gutter scum.

"It's better if I do," he says. "I mean, why dwell on what _almost_ happened? You got there in the nick of time, and by the way, I _really_ appreciate it. You were amazing back there, a true warrior!" If he keeps talking, keeps insisting he's fine, maybe the lingering filth will melt away and he'll be clean again by the morning.

She closes the door behind her and steps closer to him, her eyes dark with sadness.

"Don't do this to yourself."

"No, you don't understand!" He forces a laugh. "This is the healthy thing to do, just to forget it. Talking about it, that's just an excuse not to move on. It makes things linger!" _The smell of stale alcohol, the grip of her hands, the hateful lust in her eyes._ "I'm fine. Really."

"Sylvain."

"Please." He grips the edge of his desk. "Just...don't worry about me, okay? I've been through worse. This was nothing. I mean, if you hadn't been there in time-"

_Alcohol-stained lips forced against his, teeth tearing into his bottom lip, tunic ripped open, clawlike fingers and their sharp nails digging into every inch of his skin, her yellow eyes leering down at him as she forced him into her, moaning his brother's name-_

Bile rises to the tip of his throat and he just barely swallows it back, knuckles turning white as he grips the desk more firmly. The room momentarily spins and the professor catches him before he stumbles forward, hands gently gripping his arms, eyes looking into his. When she lets go, he shakes his head, throwing his hands up in defeat.

"I'm a whore. I mean, I'm already a whore, I fuck every girl I go out with. Why should it be such a big deal that another one tried to fuck _me_?" He almost laughs as he sinks down against the wall, and her face goes from worried to horrified.

"No. That's not..." She sits down next to him and takes his hands. "She was _wrong,_ she wanted to _hurt you,_ that _wasn't okay._ I'm not okay with _anyone_ doing that to you." Not to her student, but to _him._ Sylvain Gautier.

"I was scared," he says quietly, and she lets go of his hands to embrace him. He buries his face in her shoulder, shivering, eyes stinging with unshed tears. Scared, angry, humiliated, he can't stop thinking he could have avoided this if he'd planned more carefully. Taken someone with him, or just told the knights about the rumors of bandits instead of charging in on his own.

"I know." She's warm, and he tries to absorb as much of it as he can, his last hope for erasing the filth and grime of that afternoon. "Let it out," she whispers, and the tears fall, sobs wracking his body; her hands card through his hair and rub gentle circles against his back. She's soft, she smells like the greenhouse, and her hands are warm.

He can't remember the last time he felt this safe with anyone.

"I'll never let anyone hurt you like that again," the professor whispers, and he believes her.


End file.
